


whatever a sun will always sing

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley realises, in the most annoying and unhelpful way, in the most inconvenient and unlovely moment, that he is quite hopelessly in love.





	whatever a sun will always sing

**Author's Note:**

> Features a very brief reference to Crowley being unhappy about being asexual, because he is a dummy and hasn't even tried talking to Aziraphale.
> 
> Title from ["[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49493/i-carry-your-heart-with-mei-carry-it-in) again, because until I use the title "and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart" I'm not done with this poem as being Crowley/Aziraphale. (And probably not even then.)
> 
> Why do I keep "shoehorning" asexual!Crowley into my fic, I'm asked? Because it's been making people happy, not least myself. So there.

It's stupid. It's a feeling entirely meant for humans, a feeling that was born in the Garden -- and possibly not even there, until the forbidden fruit was tasted. A great consolation and limitation, a freedom and a new form of chains. Neither angels nor demons should feel it -- with their fixed and total love and hate, respectively, for the one being at the centre of it all. 

Well, Crowley thinks. He never did follow the rules that well anyway, especially not the unspoken ones, especially not the ones where you're not allowed to ask why. 

If he had one wish, though, it would be to not have realised this while stumbling out of a Roman wineshop with an angel hanging onto him for balance. It's not _dignified_ , it's not the kind of grand gesture he can play off as all part of the performance that is being himself. It's drunken and fuzzy round the edges at the same time as it's horribly, horribly clear.

He's in love with this angel. And he's going to be in love with this angel, come what may, until he dies and the atoms of his corporeal body have become part of the stars and in their burning have become something other, until he's so completely gone from the world that people would have a hard time finding him even in history. He's going to die in love with this angel and knowing, _knowing_ , that it's all a waste. That the angel doesn't love in a personal and time-bound manner, that only humans do that; that unlike even a human, Crowley has nothing to offer Aziraphale, not even a mutual exchange of physical pleasure, because Aziraphale shouldn't want that and Crowley has never wanted that. It's never going to happen.

"Crowley?" says the angel, miserably. "Do you think you could stop being so many of you at once?"

"Sober up, angel," he growls, thoroughly sobered up himself through the sheer glorious _misery_ of it.

The problem, he thinks, a moment later, is not so much the love, but the hope. The tentative _what if_ in the corner of his mind that says that Aziraphale is different, that they are both different, and maybe something can be. Maybe.

\---

"The wine shop," Crowley tells Aziraphale, a couple of thousand years later, and savours the puzzled look on the angel's face, because he can.

"Which one? My dear boy, we've patronised so many in our time."

"The first one."

Aziraphale's expression slides from confusion to delight and then abruptly to brow-furrowed worry. "Crowley, that's -- "

"You took a long time to catch up," Crowley says, taking Aziraphale's hand in his.

"I'm here now," Aziraphale says, gently, and the look on his face is unbearable, makes Crowley feel that he _might_ just fly apart now, and paint the universe in shades of longing and triumph.

It can't, Crowley thinks, be this easy. "You know I don't -- "

"Yes."

"And I won't want to -- "

"Yes," Aziraphale says, again. "There's no trick, Crowley. I'm afraid you have no excuse to keep wallowing."

"Wallowing!"

"My dear, like a hippopotamus in mud."

The problem, Crowley thinks, is the joy. It's fizzing out of him, uncontainable, and it won't go back in the bottle, and he's pretty sure the plants are flowering -- not just his, but all of them, for at least a mile's radius, even the flowerless greenery bursting into improbable bloom like a demon and an angel in love.

It's stupid, and it's his.


End file.
